


He's Been Lonely Awhile, Y'know?

by Iaiunitas



Series: HBO Supernatural-Verse (See Me As I Am) [1]
Category: HBO Supernatural, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, One Shot, POV Jessica Moore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester is a genius, Scars, Stanford Student Sam Winchester, Trauma, alternate universe - HBO Supernatural, being raised a hunter does not do good things to your mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iaiunitas/pseuds/Iaiunitas
Summary: Jess makes an awkward acquaintance with Sam Winchester that slowly becomes something like friendship. (One-shot) (No slash, no smut)
Relationships: Jessica Moore & Sam Winchester
Series: HBO Supernatural-Verse (See Me As I Am) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024557
Comments: 22
Kudos: 127





	He's Been Lonely Awhile, Y'know?

**Author's Note:**

> I see like, four HBO SPN posts on my dash, and now we're here. I hate Tumblr.
> 
> Heads up, because this is HBO SPN, I set it in 2014, because that's about the time I normally write (thanks MCU), and I don't have to do a ton of research about the early 2000's. Nothing's really specifically mentioned, so you're welcome to view it whenever, though.
> 
> Warnings: Anxiety attack, past child abuse, past child violence, assumed drug use, general nastiness of gossip and rumors. Some language.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope.
> 
> Pairings: None
> 
> For your information, this is cross-posted on Fanfiction.net under the same penname.

* * *

"He's such a freak."

Jess spares a glance up from the notebook she's diligently trying to complete her physics homework in to look at Rebecca. The blonde's head is slanted forward some, propped on her hand resting on the table, causing it to list to the side because of the wobbly leg. If Jess reached out with her pencil, she could poke the arm off.

She doesn't, though the urge remains there if it will get her friend to quiet.

Rebecca's lips turn down in a frown, and she gnaws on the end of her pen, gaze fixed anywhere but the table and the study group the two of them are supposed to be doing. Rebecca promised her she'd be quiet.

Jess remains impassive, looking down at the physics textbook again.

No. She didn't do that right. Frustration tugs at her. She's majoring in math, but physics, which she was promised by her mom was just math and science, is going to be the death of her. _Freakin'..._

"I mean, did you hear that he's already a senior? His teachers want him to start on Ph.D's. He can't be older than us." Rebecca continues, without prompting, chewing absently on the mangled pen end. Jess sighs. "We're already in a school of geniuses, and he sticks out. How do you manage that?"

" _Becky."_ Jess says at last.

"What?" she asks.

Jess looks up at her, peering over the edge of her glasses with annoyance. She can't read without them, much to her private embarrassment. She'd have twenty-twenty vision if it wasn't for the odd shape of her eyeballs. "You promised silence."

"I didn't promise squat."

"You said, and I quote, 'I'll be quiet'." Jess echoes her earlier assurance after class with finger quotations, "And here you are. Talking. Who the hell are you even talking _about?"_

Rebecca seems to be a pool of information about everyone and everything. Jess doesn't even know how she manages it, given that she never seems to be talking to anyone but herself, her brother, and a few other students. But Jess could ask about anyone and receive some smidge of information. She's learned, over the years since Rebecca befriended her, that tuning her out is one of the best ways to preserve her sanity.

Rebecca waves a hand boredly towards the other end of the library, where a tall, thin figure is hunched over a stack of books. Dark brown hair is a tangled mess over his head, and she can't see his face from this distance. His skin is so pale it's almost chalk-white around his pen, a ring adoring every finger on his right hand save his last, and the clothing he's wearing looks tattered and worn. His hand is blurring across a notebook that he's transcribing information from a thick text. 

Jess realizes her eyebrows have raised in surprise. 

Oh.

_Him._

A name escapes her, but she's seen him a few times since starting college a year and a half ago. Her mom raised her better than to judge, but the tall, thin, scarred man that haunts the halls has always given her the creeps. There's just something _off_ about him, and no matter how much Jess tries to work up the courage to try and wade through the rumors around him to say hi, she's barely managed a nod passing him in the halls without feeling like her heart is giving out.

It's not just the way he holds himself like he's about to be stabbed from all sides and is ready for it. Or the long, faint scar stretching from one eye across his nose, hidden beneath a plume of faint freckles. It's the fact that Jess has heard rumors, though she has no idea of how true they are, that he got arrested for having no less than _four_ unregistered guns in his apartment.

And well.

Jess's stepfather owns a shotgun. He keeps it mounted on the wall above their fireplace. She's never seen it loaded, and that's the closest she's come to a gun since she was seven. She can't imagine what you'd need four for. Especially illegally obtained ones.

If Rebecca is right, then he's barely twenty, like her. But Jess doesn't even know where to get a gun.

The man seems to notice her staring, because his head raises from the book a fraction to catch her gaze. Deep, ancient hazel hidden behind a pair of glasses not much different than her own. Long, choppy bangs hide the top of the frames. He doesn't look twenty. Maybe sixty.

His eyes, at least from what she can tell from fifty feet away, are blank.

She feels sick. Cold. Small, beneath that stare.

Her eyes pull away, back down to her notebook, silently pleading with God that he'll avert his gaze. She doesn't know if he does, and she's too afraid to look back up. She clears her throat awkwardly, rubbing a hand across her notebook paper. That has to be the longest she's looked at him. Every time she sees him she tries to look away quickly, because a lot of other students have a habit of gawking, and she doesn't want to be like them.

It's rude.

Even if he's so off-putting. What is _wrong_ with him?

Something Rebecca said registers with her, and she feels terrible, but knowing what student they're talking about has her fully invested in the conversation now. "They want him to start Ph.D.'s? _Now?"_

Rebecca shrugs again, careless, "Yeah, something about 'not wasting potential.'" She snorts softly, shifting so she's sitting upright fully; the idea clearly amuses her. "Supposed to be some sort of Stephen Hawking. You have any classes with him? I do. Guy needs a shrink, not a Nobel Peace Prize."

Jess's lips purse together, uncomfortable at the degradation, regardless of who it's for. "Hey, you don't have to be nice to be a genius."

"Yeah, but you _do_ need to be functional." Rebecca says. She twirls her finger near her ear, clearly indicating _crazy._ "He freaked out when Professor Miller dropped a book next to his head when he fell asleep in class last week. Had to leave and everything, but he was shaking so badly he nearly decked Professor Miller when he tried to help him." Rebecca says it flatly, like she's taking notes on a rabid animal.

Jess's lips press harder. She hadn't heard that. The two semesters of psychology she took because she was promised an easy A tug at her subconscious. Honestly, that kind of hyperarousal reminds her a little of herself after her dad…

She shakes the thoughts off, frowning. "Was he okay? After? Did anyone check?"

Rebecca looks at her. The question is clearly unexpected, because her brow furrows and her eyes squint the slightest bit. She pulls the pen cap from her mouth, considering. "No. No one checked, I don't think. I mean, he's over there and obviously not in the hospital or anything, so yeah. He's fine."

Being present is not the same thing as being fine.

Jess looks up for a second, wondering. The man's head is bowed again, but he seems more hunched than he did before, fingers tighter around the pen. With sudden mortification, Jess wonders if he can hear them. Her teeth set. Rebecca isn't talking loudly, but despite the shuffling of other students looking for research material, the library isn't bustling with white noise to cover their conversation.

Jess wants to bury her head in her hands. She can't imagine overhearing anyone talk about her like this and not wanting to punch them.

Her body is rigid on the chair. She looks down at her physics homework again, but it suddenly seems a lot less important. She wets her lips, and looks up at Rebecca. "What's his name?" she asks, voice very, very soft.

Rebecca has picked up her English textbook, seeming to finally have come to the conclusion that she does, in fact, want to study. "Sam," she says, unperturbed, chewing on her pen again. She seems as though they were just discussing the weather, not beating down a student. She doesn't even look up at Jess as she finishes, "Sam Winchester."

Jess nods to herself, writing the name down at the heading of the piece of paper she's using, scooting her phone out of the way. Her lips twist with discomfort and guilt. It's one thing to gossip about a student when he's not there, but fifty feet from you...that's different. Especially when they don't defend themselves. Or have anyone to do it for them.

Jess looks up toward the table, debating with herself if she should get up and apologize.

But there isn't a need.

When her eyes land on the table, it's vacant. She never heard him get up, didn't see him move from the corner of her eye. He's not anywhere else in the library when she does a quick scan around the room.

Sam Winchester, like a flickering apparition of a ghost, is gone.

000o000

The next time she sees him, he's sitting outside of the school on a bench, looking over more papers. It's been almost two weeks since the library, and Jess is trying to get to class because she's running late and Brady's laughter about her worry over her math presentation isn't helping.

Yeah, she knows she got her scholarship off of math.

That doesn't mean she's not worried about it.

She trips over herself when she tries to doubletake, nearly sprawling onto the sidewalk if it hadn't been for Brady's hand around her bicep. Everything important is, thankfully, stuffed in her backpack and not in danger of spilling across the walk like some sort of cliché High School hallway scene.

Brady's laughing harder now, but helps her get upright. The wave of that _smell_ he's been faintly tainted with for the better part of a month now rolls over her and she grimaces. Rebecca says he's doing drugs. Jess likes to think it's a new deodorant everyone's too polite to tell him smells like a toilet.

"Moore," he says, snickering, "you are absolutely hopeless."

She smacks him on the arm, which probably wasn't the greatest idea because he's part of the only reason she's upright. "I hate you."

"The ground try to grab your ankle, or you just testing gravity for the rest of us?" he asks, releasing her arm as she shakes him off. She scowls at him, and her gaze flicks towards Sam, who's still deeply engrossed in his textbook. She can't tell what it is from this distance. She really only recognized him because of the baggy jacket and height. Brady's head tilts a little, and he follows her line of sight toward Sam.

His expression, unexpectedly, brightens a little. "Oh! Are you talking to him, too? Dude's chill."

Jess feels her eyebrows shoot up. "You _know_ him?"

She wasn't aware _anyone_ actually talked with him. But the gossip has to come from somewhere, doesn't it? Her stomach rolls a little at that thought. Of people only talking with Sam so they can discuss whatever he says behind his back and chortle at it. People make her sick sometimes. Suddenly, desperately, she wishes for the calming background of her parent's farm. Horses make more sense than people.

"Yeah," Brady looks back at her, eyebrow lifted a little. "He tutors for money. Cheap, not that my parents give a crap about cost, but guy's scary smart. Worth every penny."

Jess frowns. She didn't know about the tutoring. "What are you getting help for?" she asks. He already comes to her about math, which is the class she feels most students would reach out for help on.

Brady shrugs, looking a little sheepish. "Latin. He's more fluent than my teacher. Doesn't even take the class, actually. Just tutors."

Jess chokes on a snicker. "Latin? Really?"

"I was told it'd be an easy A!" His tone is humorous, but there's...something in his gaze that gives her pause. There's been a lot of that recently. Where his eyes don't quite meet his face. She thinks something's going on with his parents, but he won't talk to her when she asks. It's almost as if Brady's not...entirely _here._

"It's _Latin._ It's dead for a reason." She chides, playing along anyway, because it's a familiar routine and role.

Brady's lips twist up, eyes blank as he stares at her. Then he nods a little to himself, as if having come to a decision, and grabs her bicep. "C'mon, I'll introduce the two of you." He declares. Jess's stomach drops to her knees and dangles there. A profanity lingers on the edge of her tongue. Her heels grind as the urge to scream _hell no!_ pulses through her.

"My-my class—" she tries.

Brady is unrepentant. "It will only take a second. Promise. He's not a talker."

Yeah, she'd picked up on that much.

Brady drags her towards the lone senior, and Sam looks up as they approach. His hard eyes soften at the edges fractionally as he sees her companion, then slide over her with an edge of wariness that causes his frame to almost bend beneath the pressure. His pale, too-thin hands wrap around the edge of his tattered black notebook.

This close, she can see other faint, white scars on his face and neck. A healed gash on his chin, one down the left side of his cheek, edging off his right ear and disappearing down the left side of his neck. He looks like he was in a gang.

Brady's reassurances that he's "chill" suddenly have very little meaning to her.

He's going to murder them both. With his pen. He may be thin, but he's tall like a tree and could probably give her brain damage if he punched her.

"Hey, Sam! How you doin'?" Brady's voice is filled with levity she does not share in any part of her body, "This is Jess. She's a scholarship student, you're a scholarship student. You have so much in common already. Say 'hi.'" He flashes a grin, and it lights up his face. For the first time in a while, his eyes seem to share the mirth.

Sam looks up at her, studies her face like he can see into her soul. His glasses are gone, but the dark bangs are still a mess across his forehead. She didn't realize it before, but the baggy gray shirt he's wearing is stamped with some sort of faded saying: " _that's not very Emo of you"_ with bleeding black hearts around "emo." He's wearing flannel on top of it, and his ratty gray jacket over that, despite the fact this is California. His feet shift slightly, and the mostly un-tied skater shoes catch her attention for a moment. His jeans have holes in the knees.

He reminds her a little of the rebellious teenager in a Disney Channel movie.

And, if she's being honest with herself, he's attractive, despite his scars.

He doesn't look like a genius. Not the stereotype she thinks of, anyway. With the white button downs, suit coats, ties, circle glasses, and the voice that sets her skin on edge while they spill facts ceaselessly. But that portrayal is normally just from fiction.

"Hi." Sam says, curtly, when it's obvious she's not going to. His voice isn't as deep as she was expecting. Most of the tall men that she knows have deep voices.

"Hey," Jess replies weakly. Her hands are sweaty. She wraps them around her backpack straps to hide this. Sam's gaze flicks towards Brady for a moment, something unspoken in his eyes, then it returns to Jess. She wets her lips, and swallows around her dry throat. "Hey, so. Um. I just wanted to say sorry. About the library. If you heard us, y'know?"

Wow.

That was smooth, Moore.

Sam shifts, but whether it's from discomfort or anger, she doesn't know. He shrugs a little, "It's fine." Still clipped. Cold.

"Not really," Jess says, her shoulders bunching up further. What is it _about_ him that makes her want to stand thirty feet away and fend herself off from him with a rake? "We're were being stupid. Becky just likes to gossip. I shouldn't have engaged her. Sorry."

Sam's head tips the slightest fraction at that, as if genuinely confused. "Um." And it's his hesitation here that confirms that, "Thanks. For the apology." His eyes skirt.

"Sure." She says awkwardly. She picks at a stray thread on her jacket.

Brady obliquely facepalms.

She fumbles with her hands like they're not her own and points in the direction of the building she's supposed to have been in four minutes ago. "I, uh, gotta go. Class. Nice talking to you, Sam"—no, it wasn't, not at all, but it's one of those things you say regardless of whether or not you mean it—"bye!"

She all but bolts away from the bench, leaving Brady and Sam behind her. She exhales a plume of air, teeth gritted and smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand several times. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she chants under her breath, and quietly pleads with whatever higher power is out there that she doesn't run into Sam Winchester again.

000o000

God, because He has a sense of humor, or is just that cruel, doesn't listen.

Jess collides with him outside of a Starbucks two days later. She's not sure exactly how they've managed to go almost two years at the same school without really being aware of the other's existence and are suddenly incapable of staying apart for sixty hours. She doesn't think he was on her commute this much.

Jess nearly dumps her hot chocolate all over him. She hates coffee, and refuses to engage in it anymore after she couldn't sleep for sixty hours straight, but the liquid is still burning and hot, and instead of dumping it on his shirt and jacket, she spills it all over her fingers.

Jess swears loudly, dropping the cup.

Sam catches the cup by the base, not even seeming to think about it as Jess frantically shakes her hand like a maniac to remove the liquid. Sam produces a napkin from somewhere and shoves it toward her without making contact with her skin.

Jess wipes down her hand, flexing her fingers in discomfort. _Ow._

"Sorry," she says, embarrassed. She stuffs the saturated napkin into her jean's front pocket. "But, uh, thanks."

He hands her cup back to her without a word. He's already holding is own coffee cup, and has a laptop bag swung over one shoulder, backpack on the other. The cup is without a lid, and the awkward angle he went at to stop hers from spilling on the ground should have made him pour his on the sidewalk. He didn't.

For some reason, this unsettles her.

His mouth works for a second, like he's trying to remember how to speak, then he says with far more hesitance than she'd expected, "It's, um, Jess, right?"

"Yeah." Jess says. A couple walks around them, giving Sam a wide berth. "Jessica Moore, but call me Jessica and I'll scrape your eyes out with a knife." She means it as a joke, isn't even really sure why she says it, because Rebecca has known her for years and still doesn't know her name is actually Jessica, but Sam minutely flinches, face straining.

Her eyes stray up towards the scar below his right eye. She feels both horrified and nauseous all at once. No way. _No way._ It had to have been some stupid accident when he was a kid. He hit his head on the table or something. Not... _that._

His eyes squint with some frustration. Not with her, maybe...himself? "Look, um, sorry. I'll just...get out of your way. You probably have class."

And, for some reason, despite how her spine is curling with discomfort and her mouth tastes like ash, Jess says, "I think we're going to the same building. You want to walk together?"

He looks surprised, as if the idea of her _choosing_ to spend time with him is so peculiar he needs a second to wrap his mind around that. That thought makes her unwittingly upset. She takes a sip of her hot chocolate to hide it.

"Um, sure." Sam says.

That's kind of that.

000o000

Over the next three weeks, Sam makes a habit of just...showing up wherever she is and acting like it's a coincidence. The more it happens, the more she becomes convinced that their ill-timed coffee run-in wasn't, in fact, an accident. He doesn't talk much, and neither does she, just seems to enjoy any form of human communication.

It's not like he's there outside of every class, or work, or waiting outside of every building she exits, but at least once a day, she'll at least _see_ him at school, if not talk, and his eyes seem to brighten a little when she waves. He starts waving first at her after week two, looking like it's some sort of accomplishment, and her heart does that funny twisty-thing it does whenever she thinks about him.

He brings her hot chocolate a month out from Brady introducing them. It's exactly the way she prefers it, hot, but not burning with a little bit of cream and a handful of tiny marshmallows. She takes it cautiously from him, half afraid that it'll be poisoned. Yeah, she and Sam aren't strangers anymore, but they aren't BFF's either, and she's hardly told her group of friends about him. He reminds her of a work acquaintance. Friends, but not really... _friends._

Sam, she notices, avoids making any contact with her skin as he hands her the cup. He always does that. They've never actually made physical contact yet, not even accidentally brushing shoulders or bumping shoes.

"Thanks," Jess says, and takes a sip of it. Sam's lips do that thing, where they twitch up, but don't quite smile, like he's not exactly sure how to. The black shirt he's wearing today says in white " _I'll stop wearing black as soon as they invent a darker color."_

Despite the mild weather, he's still in his worn gray jacket. He's never without it, not that she's seen.

"Sure," Sam says, nodding once. His hands awkwardly fumble next to his side, like he doesn't know what to do with them, and his rings glint in the sunlight. He grips his laptop bag.

She nods to his shirt, starting to walk forward, and Sam follows next to her. "Funny."

Sam looks down at it, like he has to remember which shirt he's actually wearing. "Oh," his lips twitch, "thanks. How is Statistics going?"

They do talk about school. Somewhat. Okay, she talks about school because it's a neutral topic, he listens, and offers insight occasionally. Getting any personal information out of him is like wringing water from a brick, despite the month of interaction. She knows the classes he's taking, and that he thinks he's biology teacher is an ass, but that's about it.

"Fine." Jess sighs, then groans, "My teacher is making us put together this spreadsheet, pulling data together from all these sources, and it feels like a freakin' science project. I'm ready to tear out my hair."

Sam huffs. "What program are you using? Google?"

Jess eyes him skeptically, "There's others?"

"Plenty," Sam confirms. "Google's fine, but it might not be great for long-term if you're going to be working on this for a few weeks."

She blows into the drink. "That would have been great to know _before_ I started writing up the data. I'm not re-doing all of that. I refuse on the pain of death."

Sam's lips strain slightly, as they always do whenever she mentions death, metaphorically or not. She buries a wince. "What about you?" she asks, "How's school?"

A group of students laugh loudly nearby, and Sam's eyes flick away for a moment to study them, then return to her, as if having determined the noise is nothing to worry over. Jess thinks about Rebecca mentioning him having a panic attack at a book being dropped next to his head. "Okay." He rolls his eyes a little, "My guidance counselor is pushing for me to try and 'higher my goals', but I'm not really interested in all the majors she wants."

"What do you want to do, then?" she asks with genuine curiosity.

"Law." Sam shrugs, "I want to be a lawyer, or a judge, I'm not sure yet. If everything goes okay, I'll be in the Pre-Law program next year."

Jess tilts her head.

Huh.

Law.

That wouldn't have been her first guess. He kind of struck her as someone who wouldn't want to be bent behind a desk all day, though she's not entirely sure why. "I can see that," she says after a moment. She doesn't say the dark, slightly pessimistic thought that comes to mind: _you'll scare everyone into agreeing with you by just being in the same room._

Sam stares at her as if she just suggested he cut off his finger. With clear dubiety, he intones, "You _do_?"

"Um. Yeah?" She's not a fumbling person. Not with words. But Sam makes all the _uhhs_ and _ums_ come pouring out of her. She feels like an idiot when she talks, and she hates it. That freakin bit of off-putting-ness about him. It's gotten slightly less the more she's talked with him, but not enough that she's truly comfortable. "I think you'll do great in whatever career path you choose."

He stares at her, as if waiting for the punchline to her joke. When she doesn't have one, he seems to stumble over himself a little. "Oh. Thanks."

Not sure what to say, she takes another sip of the warm drink. It doesn't settle in her stomach, spreading heat out to the rest of her like it normally would. It feels like a brick, sitting there, impossible to digest. "Sure." She says, a little distant.

Sam's phone chirps.

His eyes roll and he sighs, patting down pockets until he finds the device and pulls it from his jacket smoothly. When his lip manages to actually quirk up, she feels her eyebrows raise. "Who is it?"

He shrugs, suddenly looking tense again, "Uh, just my brother. He's, um, having some troubles with work. Asked for my help."

"Oh. He do that a lot?" Jess asks. It's the first time Sam's ever mentioned his family to her. She didn't know that he had a sibling. She's not even sure if both his parents are alive.

"Yeah. We kept in contact after I left for school," Sam says, and doesn't say anything else when she asks.

000o000

"You're _talking_ with him?" Rebecca almost chokes on the word when Jess waves back at Sam. Jess nods absently to her, watching while he lifts up some sort of paper, pointing towards the circled A. She smiles faintly and offers a thumbs up. Probably his History test. He was, for some reason, worried about it. He's got to have the closest to an eidetic memory that she's ever seen.

"Yeah," Jess says, turning back to her friend and the laptop, "he's nice."

" _Nice?"_ Rebecca's mouth drops open. "He's a _psychopath."_

Jess looks at her, irritated. "Becky, really? What proof do you have of that? He's just got a few scars." And that weird air about him, and the hyperarousal to everything, and he memorized her schedule, which is a little strange, but otherwise. No. He's nice.

Rebecca's tongue works inside her mouth, obviously trying to come up with a retort that doesn't involve shouting. "Jess, girlfriend, I don't think you should be talking with him. He's dangerous."

Jess raises an eyebrow. "I've been talking to him for almost two months and nothings—"

" _Two months?!"_ the blonde repeats with horror. "Are you kidding me?! Why did you not mention that?"

"'Cause I knew that you'd do this." Jess says dryly. "Becky. Relax. I'm not the only one, y'know. Brady likes him."

"Brady's high."

"Brady's not—"

" _Brady's high."_

Jess throws up her hands, frustrated. She wants to argue the point with Brady, but can't. "Well what do you want me to do?! I'm not going to just stop talking to him."

Rebecca's eyes narrow. Her nose crinkles. "Maybe you should. Oh, man he's coming closer."

"Just." Jess runs a hand through her hair, glancing up to see Sam is, indeed, approaching. "Just don't. You may be like my sister, but you don't get to butt into my life. You know that I don't approve of Dave, but you don't see me calling _him_ crazy."

"That's 'cause Dave didn't walk into Stanford homeless. Or with a weapon arsenal. He's got a _knife_ collection."

"Now he's not a knife collection," Jess repeats to herself, incredulous. First the guns, of which she's found no proof, even if she's been too afraid to ask Sam, "Where the hell do you even _get_ this stuff? Have you actually talked to him?"

"I don't need to," Rebecca's hand is tight around the edge of the book. The small bench the two of them have commandeered suddenly feels like it's shrinking. Her anger is a physical thing. "Damn! When you get stabbed through the heart and your body buried, don't complain to me."

Jess's teeth set. "I'm not going to get stabbed—"

"He's like your dad." Rebecca says without preamble. Jess freezes, hands stilling over the keyboard. "Where he seems all nice, but he's actually freakin' crazy. He's gonna pull a gun on you, just like he did, and you're not going to be any more ready!"

Out.

Out.

_Out._

It's not coming. Breath is strangled up around her heart, and making it cramp. Pulse, pulse, _pulse._ She's going to choke. Jess heaves, and Rebecca's face pales suddenly, guilt splitting across her face. "Jess, Jess, hey, I'm sorry that was—that was out of line. Hey," her hand touches Jess's skin, and the contact makes her jerk. She shudders, gripping at her hair, yanking. "Hey, I'm sorry. You've gotta breathe, girl."

_(Barrel of the gun. Cold eyes.)_

"Jess!"

_(Shouting.)_

"—s!"

_(Discharge. Cold eyes.)_

"You—"

"Jessica!" The voice is sharp, and bony hands grab her shoulders. Jess gasps at the sound, looking up sharply. Sam is there, gripping her, eyes even. While Rebecca and a small, now-gathered crowd watches on, a mix between vague horror and discomfort between their faces, Sam is perfectly calm. Like he's dealt with this a thousand times before. "Jessica, look at me."

Her eyes snap back to his hazel. His bangs are too long, he needs to cut them. Her gaze skitters away, hand clamped over her heart. It's thumping.

_(Cold eyes, finger on the trigger, blood leaking down the side of his face. Screaming. Distant. Her own.)_

"Jessica." Sam says, tone slightly softer. "Jessica, what color are your shoelaces?"

What?

_(Cold eyes, finger on the—)_

"Um." She fumbles for a moment, trying to remember. "Black? No—white. Wait. White."

_(Finger on the—)_

Sam nods with encouragement, shifting a little. He's kneeling down in front of her, so they're eye level. "What did you have for breakfast?"

_Can't breathe, can't breathe, CAn't BReATHe—_

( _Finger—)_

Pant, pant, gasping choke. "Cereal?" She grits out. Her eyes squeeze shut. Sam's hands tighten a fraction around her arms. His fingers are freezing. She'd expected them to be warm, with how much clothing he's wearing all the time.

Sam's thumb rubs up her arm, "You're doing great, Jessica," he promises. "This is going to sound a little arbitrary, but hold your breath."

Jess blinks up at him, bewildered, she heaves, " _What?"_

"Hold your breath. It forces your nervous system to respond. It's sort of like fighting fire with fire." Sam explains. Jess tries to bite on her breath. The sudden lack of even her thin wheezes causes a new spawn of panic to swirl through her, but Sam grips her arms tighter, cold, calloused fingers keeping her grounded.

Jess expels the air in a rush, and inhales it shakily, but exhales as slowly as she can. She holds it at the top, and lets it go, slow.

Out.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Her breathing steadies with effort, and Sam shifts a little. His shoelaces are actually tied today. Double knotted in uneven bows. "Here," Sam says quietly, shoulders slightly tense. He folds down her laptop screen and sweeps all of her crap into her backpack, still managing to keep contact with her arm. He swings the bag over his shoulder, and helps her to her feet. "Let's, uh, go for a coffee."

Jess doesn't protest.

Rebecca looks like she kind of wants to, but she doesn't say a word as they walk away, Sam's tentative fingers gripped around her shoulders in a point of contact. And it's weird, because of that _aura_ Sam almost gives off, but half hidden inside of an embrace, actually maintaining contact, Jess feels completely safe.

It should be worse with contact.

But it's not.

"It's Jess," she mumbles.

000o000

Sam hands her a pack of mini Hostess donuts, powered, then takes a seat next to her on the bench. They're outside of the library. He's careful to keep distance between them, hands flexed over his knees, the four silver rings always on his right hand rubbing up and down the length of his metacarpals.

Jess stares at him, then the donut pack.

Sam wets his lips, "Energy. Panic attacks are physically draining. You're gonna need a boost if you want to make it through the rest of today."

How, Jess wonders, does he _know_ that? She tears open the package and picks at one of the donuts halfheartedly. The sugar seems to help a little, but she hates it when the powder gets all over her fingers, she feels like she's digging it out from under nails for the next few weeks. "Thanks," she mutters, lifting up the pack somewhat to indicate what she's talking about. "I know you're not swimming in cash or anything, so."

Sam looks up at her, seeming a little surprised. "Is it, um, that obvious?"

Jess tries not to stare at his jacket. "You work at a diner and live off of tips. It's not that hard to make a jump. Scholarships only go so far. You still need to eat."

"Yeah," Sam inhales. "Now that you're done trying to change the subject, do you want to talk about what happened?"

Jess's mouth freezes. ( _Cold eyes, finger on the trigger—)_ "We, uh, I'm." She stops, looking forward. Her hand tightens around the Hostess donuts, squishing them. She feels kind of guilty about this, she was going to offer one to Sam. "It's." She runs a hand through her hair.

 _Talking helps,_ Jess's therapist used to remind her, over and over again. _Talking always helps._

She breathes out deeply. Sam waits, patient. Curious. The story comes out of her slowly, "When I was about seven, my dad, my birth dad, he, um, became convinced that my mom was having an affair. She wasn't, but it kind of became this life-consuming thing to him. He wasn't ever really a good guy to begin with, but when he approached her about it, and she denied it, he, uh, tried to kill her."

Sam's lips thin. His fingers flex a little, but his left thumb does that weird twitch-thing, like it doesn't bend right anymore.

Jess squishes the donuts harder, plastic crinkling loudly. "I'd just gotten home from school. I saw him shoot her. He held the gun on me, wouldn't let me call the cops. My neighbor heard the shot, and dialed 911 anyway. The cops had to pull my dad out of there screaming." It's the clipped, emotionless report she gives everyone. "Rebecca brought it up. I doubt it was on purpose, but it, um. Yeah."

_Had to do with you. She's convinced that you're just as much of a paranoid psychopath that my dad was._

She doesn't say that.

How could she?

Jess doesn't look at him, suddenly afraid of what his reaction would be. His scars speak of a life of trauma, and her little incident seems a lot less traumatic than your eyeball getting carved out. _People can drown in seven feet of water just as much as they can twenty,_ her therapist said to her when she said this once at fifteen and kept comparing trauma. _They're both still dead._

"Your...your mom?" Sam asks, hesitant.

"Lived," Jess supplies, tone a little short. "Had to a liver transplant, but the EMT's got there in time."

Sam's hand rests on hers with an air of unfamiliarity to the gesture, like he's seen it happen in movies, but has barely used it. She looks up at him. "I'm sorry," he says, voice sincere. It's not even with that air of _God, I'm glad that was you, not me_ that most people comfort with. She wraps her hand around his fingers, squeezing it in thanks.

"I, uh, know what it's like to have a parent pull a weapon on you. It's hard. When the person who's supposed to protect you becomes the one you have to defend yourself from." Sam's voice is very quiet, eyes distant.

Jess stares at him, sucking in the small bit of information, but feeling horrified all the same.

She looks at the scar under his eye.

_I wonder..._

"Yeah," Jess whispers.

Sam's lips press together, as if realizing he revealed a small smidgen of information about himself and looks up at her, pulling his hand back, clasping his fingers together. "What do you say we skip class and go visit a nearby art museum? They have the ugliest paintings."

Jess's eyebrow lifts. "That's gonna help?"

"Sure," Sam agrees, rubbing his rings. Up, down, up, down.

Jess doesn't share his enthusiasm, but sighs, and holds out the packet of squished donuts towards him. Despite their squished appearance, Sam picks one out from the package and smiles a little at her. A ghostly, faint thing, but it makes her heart flutter like a twelve-year-old discovering her first crush.

"Okay," Jess agrees. "Lead on, Winchester."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts open to further this 'verse. Please be aware I might say no. :) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you're comfortable with that. 
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iaiunitas/)  
> 


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